


Wishing With Your Hands

by Charolastra



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alive Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Artist Connor Murphy (Dear Evan Hansen), Confession, F/M, Fluff, Sculptor Connor Murphy, Sculpture, just some cute stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23437411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charolastra/pseuds/Charolastra
Summary: Connor shows Alana something deeply personal.
Relationships: Alana Beck/Connor Murphy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Wishing With Your Hands

A man, leaning, resting on his back. It was borne of clay dark as dirt, but to Alana, it was beautifully clean; pure as morning. His chest rolled with oblique bumps of muscle, strangely real. Every ripple of modelled skin and flesh was exploding into life, as though the clay was merely a thin veneer--not a sculpture, but a mask over a human body. It made her own skin prickle curiously.

Alana's browns travelled to the face, scouring incredulously. The features were surprisingly barren. The lips were thin--pursed-- and the eyes unblinking with no pupils marked in their depth. A mane of long hair sprouted just above its furrowed brow, every strand carved reverently into the mold; it sprawled out backward into the air. Yet the most curious detail was the girl bursting from his chest.

It was neither gorey nor graphic, as Alana would expect of Connor; She felt near ashamed for thinking it would be so as she rounded the stand to view the girl. There were no guts, no ribs, no dollops of clay acting as sticky blood. Just this. Just 'Her,' appearing below the man's ribcage, her hips nearly visible from inside him. 

This one was much more animated in manner. Alana ducked beneath one of her long arms, stretched diagonally towards the sky, and vented a puff of air in amazement. She almost wished she could touch it--but Connor would bite her head off for it. The awed smile on her face only grew.

She was like a bird taking flight, Alana thought: reaching upwards, scratching the sky. She too had the detailed hair flowing to her shoulders. This was thick, coiled; still, the ends parted in silky frizz. Listless mounds formed her breasts, and above that, sharp divots for her collar bone. 

Connor had yet to give her a face; there was a fresh slab of clay protruding from where it should be, framed by the silken hair. Alana now dared to touch it, out of view of Connor.

The teen moved gracefully and gingerly, pressing the pads of her finger into the material with care. It was still wet. Ready to be molded to life. 

"This is incredible," Alana breathed, watching her fingers leave prints in the clay. Her lips were parted, like closing it would trap all the words of praise on her tongue from leaving. "This is so amazing, Connor."

Connor's response was nothing but a sharp exhale, as though he had been holding his breath the whole time. Alana looked over her shoulder at the quiet scene of acceptance, his chestnut eyes fixed on his digits in front of him. The male dug tidbits of dried clay from beneath his nails nonchalantly, but his cheeks, half obscured in the prude light, bore a dusting of pink. 

Alana turned back, the smile on her face vanishing. In the silence, she let her hand fall from the faceless woman and brushed her fingers on her skirt. Now what? An uncomfortable chill rushed through her palms. Maybe now she had to ditch the idea that they could grow closer through this.

"Just a hobby," Connor opined into the silence. Alana shifted to look at him, her trepidation abandoning her. "Your sister?" she prompted. The male shrugged, rising from his lean against the wall and striding towards his creation. "Somebody." 

Alana nodded, chewing on the information. And her bottom lip. "Must be some type of symbolism?" she scoffed, smiling.

Connor didn't answer. The lanky male reached for the red-stained smock hanging beside the clay people, fingering the fraying threads at its ends. "Is this enough now?"

Alana walked up behind him, then elbowed him in the side gently. "Oh, c'mon. I showed you my stupid old poems. Show me how you make the faces," she commanded. "Then it'll be enough."

"Fine."

His voice was much more listless than his eyes; not for the first time. Alana watched contentedly as he donned the ruined smock, dusted his hands on a wet rag, and rounded the white paper tarp to the side of the woman. Without waiting for the girl to catch up, he began siphoning the sharp edges of the clay with his fingers. Effortlessly. Piece after piece fell onto the floor, making wet thuds that made Alaba wince--and typically, hop to keep her feet from getting hit.

In hallways, his smiles were leftovers--like he always remembered something fondly rather than existed in the present. The one that formed now as he worked-- toothy, wide and unwavering--was fresh and pure and real.

Alana felt her own smile twitch at the corners. Had she ever seen Connor smile like this? Maybe once. Maybe in art, she'd watched his tongue poke between his teeth as he took long strokes with charcoal. Maybe she'd seen him beam at a compliment walking by.

"So," said the dark-haired teen. "To make noses, you just pinch and mold this little piece.." His fingers found a protruding daub of clay on the portrait and squeezed together, then flattened one side with his thumb. 

"How do you make the eyes?" Alana questioned. She tapped Connor's temples playfully, dragging his attention back to her. "You can't just use your fingers, can you?"

"When my nails were long enough," he mumbled, seeming offended, but his crooked smile only grew. He set to the eyes; stooped to grab clay off the discarded pieces, then rolled them into thin balls. With calculated pressure, he created divots above the nose with his thumb, stuck the small clay balls into the centers. 

Connor stood back, wiping his hands on the smock and streaking muddy red down it. Alana blinked, scrutinizing the half-portrait. "The lips?" she asked, looking sideways at Connor. Her confidence bolstered, she smiled, akimbo in front of the statue. She tapped her boot heel on the ground, shifted the pink skirt hugging her hips. 

Connor made a noise; he started to turn away, just as Alana caught the beginnings of a blush crossing his nose. The girl blinked, a casual feeling of befuddlement coming and going quickly. 

Connor came back with the right pocket of his smock bulging slightly. He did not acknowledge Alana, instead taking another lump from the red clay and turning to the statue. Once the lump was flattened between his tanned palms, he placed a top lip just below the nose. Gentle brushes blended the corners into the rest of the face. He repeated the process for the bottom. His fingers teased the features into a smile. 

"Inspiration comes from a lot of, um, places," Connor stated as he reached into his pocket. Alana cocked her head to the side, her thick black hair twisting over her shoulder. "Like the rest of art, yeah. But statues are different." 

Connor shrugged. His back turned to the girl, digits working a morsel of pale white clay in his hands, he started again: "It's about wishing with your hands, I think..."

"That makes sense." 

Connor turned back.

He refused to look at Alana; instead, he peered downward, allowing her to quietly take in the spatter of white clay on the statue's bottom lip.


End file.
